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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26939578">I Want to Get Better</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/AegagrusThrone/pseuds/AegagrusThrone'>AegagrusThrone</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Supreme Winter: Short Stories [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Original Work</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Addiction, Alcoholism, Break Up, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Verbal Abuse, domestic abuse</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-10-10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-10-10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 16:53:29</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,540</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26939578</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/AegagrusThrone/pseuds/AegagrusThrone</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>A glimpse into the man he once was: one of William Svenson's biggest regrets.</p><p>(( commission for vomltbreath on twitter/toyhou.se ))</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Original Male Character/Original Male Character</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Supreme Winter: Short Stories [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1965754</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>I Want to Get Better</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The end of summer had come at last. The waters of the Pacific brought salty winds to cool every Californian in their path, and William Svenson was grateful for the reprieve after such a merciless heatwave. Another day, another dollar…all for the landlord after a hard day’s work. Nothing to be proud of when he rarely saw a penny for himself.</p><p> Will’s feet were swollen and blistered as he limped his way back to his run-down apartment that evening. He was hot, beyond exhausted, ready to curl up on the couch into whatever thin, dreamless sleep he could manage. Dark brown hair clung to his face and back in sweaty strands he did not bother to wipe away, filthy hands twitched in anticipation for a drink. What he needed was water; what he’d get was booze, and he liked it just fine despite his body’s protests. It was better than the bland-ass Gatoraid his bosses offered him. He doubted it worked the wonders everyone said it did, but it was better than being dehydrated...or getting fired for sneaking in some booze.</p><p>There was no hurry to reach the front door. He hobbled to it leisurely, cursing under his breath as he fiddled with his keys and struggled with the lock. The door caught on stray splinters of wood, forced open when Will pushed against it with all his weight. Dimly he wondered if the noise woke Carson up, but he could not give a rat’s ass. Carson had all the time in the world to sit at home and smoke their dirtbud away, so he’d most likely just fall back asleep. Bitterness simmered in Will’s gut, prompted him to slam the door behind him and lean against it to catch his breath, his head tilted towards the ceiling. Just above the door was a large, black stain. Mold that no one had bothered to scrub away, perhaps. Will told himself he simply never had the time to do it. Deep down he knew it was a lie.</p><p>He sighed through clogged nostrils and sauntered towards his ultimate goal: the fridge, with its flickering light, rotten smell, the dead flies congregating on its shelves. In the front was a recently purchased six pack of Coors Light. Will grabbed one for himself, pressed the cold bottle to his forehead with a breathless chuckle. All at once his body seemed to relax, the knots in his stomach unwound in anticipation for his prize —</p><p>“Will?” Carson called from their bedroom. Will’s budding smile morphed into a scowl. <em>There it is.</em> “Is that you, Willy?”</p><p>“Who else would it be?” Will set the bottle on the counter and kicked the fridge shut with an irritable sigh. He understood Carson was not out to get him, but he could not help cringing at the high-pitched whine, the thought of that death-rattle he called a laugh, the sight of pale skin illuminated by moonlight through an open window. Even the approaching footsteps made Will stiffen and preemptively turn his back in search of the bottle opener. “I said it’s me,” he said gruffly when they came to a stop. “You can go back to bed.”</p><p>“You’re home late.” Carson’s voice was soft, and his tone made it clear the rebuttal hurt. “You didn’t answer any of my calls...I was worried about you, babe.”</p><p>“I’m fine. Just tired.” The bottle opener sat on the windowsill above the sink. Will gripped it with shaking fingers and popped off the cap. Immediately he took a long, deep sip that warmed his esophagus. When he set the bottle down again, half the beer was already gone. “I’m sorry I woke you. I’m gonna watch TV for a bit and then I’ll -”</p><p>“You’re drinking already?” The clear disapproval prompted Will to spin around defensively. Carson’s soft, round face twisted in exasperated concern. “Willy, come on, you can’t go in tomorrow puking your guts up, they’ll just send you home. You can’t afford to get sick right now!”</p><p>Will’s eyes narrowed into ice-blue slits, red-rimmed with fatigue and the beginnings of intoxication. “Funny, I could’ve sworn you were my boyfriend, not my fucking dad.” A sick sense of pride overtook him at Carson’s injured expression, and he took another sip to commemorate his otherwise empty victory. “I had a long day at work, my legs are killing me, I deserve a fucking drink. Get off my back.”</p><p>“I didn’t mean it like that, Willy…”</p><p>“Well from now on, <strong>nurse</strong>, I’ll ask if I want your advice.” Another flinch, another sip, and the vaguest hint of guilt. Will had already gotten used to this sick waltz in the month they spent living together. Carson would worry about something, Will would cruelly shut him down, and they would spend hours apart before fucking like rabbits until he had to go to work the next day. Ideal was not a word he would use, but it was reality, and Will could adapt to virtually any environment he was placed in. Especially if it was of his own creation.</p><p>Carson shook his head in dismay. He was holding back - William knew it - but the cracks in his willpower were beginning to show. “Will, I just...I care about you, you know? I know you’re better than this. You could get a good job if you really wanted to. You could make it out of this apartment - hell, out of this city if you tried!” He reached hesitantly to place a hand on Will’s shoulder, but was coldly brushed away as Will finished his beer. “This...isn’t good for you at all. I’m only trying to help you.”</p><p>“<em>I don’t need your fucking help!</em>” Will spat and backed away from him until he was pressed against the fridge once more. “I don’t want your help either. You’re not here to be my therapist, you’re not here to give me advice, you’re here to spread those cheeks and ride my dick until I’ve had enough of you. When the hell are you gonna get that through your thick fucking skull?!” </p><p>A ghastly silence followed. He almost apologized then and there, but it was too late.</p><p>Carson stood there a minute longer. Brown eyes narrowed to mirror Will’s, skinny hands balled into fists.</p><p>“...You know what, Will?” he said frigidly. “Do whatever you want. I don’t care.” By the time Will opened his mouth to retort, Carson had turned away from him and back down the hall, into the bedroom they would not share much longer.</p><p>Normally Will would have brushed it off and grabbed his next beer, but there was a sense of finality in Carson’s words which made him stiffen despite the cries of protest from his muscles. It was no threat, but a <strong>promise</strong>, one Will was all too familiar with. Carson had enough of his shit at last. Probably would not spend another night in this dump if he could avoid it. He had more of a spine than Will gave him credit for, he’d confess that much.</p><p>Ultimately he decided he would not fall to his knees and beg a man he did not love to stay another day. He knew how to use his hands, he could save up money for the company he craved. What was another breakup added to his repertoire? Will tossed the empty bottle towards the garbage can only to overshoot, flinching as glass shattered and fell to the floor, flooding his ears with unpleasant noise. Time for another drink; one beer was not enough for this mess.</p><p>Will grabbed himself another bottle and marched waveringly to the bathroom. <em>Shower it off, Willy,</em> he told himself. <em>You’ll feel better.</em> He knew he would not, but the thought was what counted...and it sure beat trying to sleep covered in grime. He set the bottle on the rim of the tub and unzipped his fly for a quick piss when his reflection caught his eye. Lousy was too kind a word to describe him: he looked like someone whipped his ass to hell and back. He scoffed, turned away, and shrugged his pants off into the corner.</p><p>When he looked up again, his heart sank.</p><p>Will would never forget eyes which stared back at him. The angular face and the long, brunet clumps that framed it. The chapped lips twisted into a scowl of yellow teeth, the disgusting cacophony of cigarettes and liquor tainted breath. It was his own, yet far more sinister. If he listened closely he could almost <em>hear</em> the familiar voice: “<em>You little fucker, you’re in it now. Can never get shit right, can you? I’ll beat that smile off your face, boy, <strong>beat it right the fuck off - </strong></em>”</p><p>The visage splintered into fragments before him. Flecks of glass fell into the sink to be washed down the drain. Will could not recall punching the mirror, but knew he must have: he could not stand to see his father’s face for another heartbeat. Instead he looked at the drain, focused on it intently, begged himself not to cry even as he felt tears well up in his eyes.</p><p><em>I’m nothing like him,</em> he told himself. <em>I’m <strong>not.</strong></em></p><p>
  <strong>
    <em>But you’re on the way there, my friend.</em>
  </strong>
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